


All Of My Mornings With You

by Nyhne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cold War, Forbidden Love, Historical Hetalia, I guess lol fight me, M/M, Romance, Takes place in the early 1950s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyhne/pseuds/Nyhne
Summary: In the midst of both of their Allied occupations, Prussia receives a visit from Austria at his apartment in Berlin. Historical Hetalia, early 1950s.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A quick oneshot that I started on my phone over the summer. Although I don't really have ONE set of headcanons about characters, this does contain a lot of my most reoccurring headcanons, especially for nationverse. (more on that at the end)

Prussia’s apartment in Berlin is gray. It reeks of hasty, Soviet architecture and is the third building he’s been moved too since the war ended. At least this one doesn’t have bullet holes sprayed into the side of the building.

As an “indispensable” (quite literally, as Prussia’s Nation status makes it so they have no choice but to deal with his presence, like it or not) member of the government, he is required to stay within the confines of East Germany’s capital city. It’s a requirement Prussia would normally be more than happy to fulfill—if it wasn’t being given by Russia’s stupid implanted leaders. Prussia has a sneaking suspicion that the only reason they have him assigned to this shithole of a building in his once-thriving capital is because they (that is, _Ivan’s_ people) want to send him a message: that Prussia is no more and he is now Soviet territory.

That despite what he might think, being a Nation does not grant him special treatment like it once did in the past; now he is no better than his neighbor—some Party hick who works in the economics department, has a skinny, gray-looking wife, and a son who can recite the junk they pump out of the radios like his life depends on it. Which, it probably does.

But the Soviets’ reassessment of Nations isn’t entirely unique, so it’s easy for Prussia to roll his eyes at it and go wherever they point with a scratch to the nose and another notch tightened on his uniform belt. Most countries had begun reassessing their Nations following the war, from what he understands. Just like the days of glittering crowns and jewel encrusted scepters had passed away the century before, so too, had the pomp and circumstance of nation avatars. Now, they were mostly being used as errand boys and advisors.

And like most government advisors, their advice was disregarded on principal.

Prussia doesn’t give two shits about the Soviet Union anyway, to care whether his advice is heeded or not. Most days they don’t even both calling him into office, so he simply stays in his cramped, Party-provided housing (whichever sagging building they had decided on that week), and does nothing. After nearly half a century of it, he’s almost used to it.

On this day in particular, the sun is just barely poking out from the clouds and it’s as close to sunny as they’ve had in months, so Prussia decides to go for a walk at the nearby park. He’s waiting for Austria to arrive from Vienna, with “sensitive” (Prussia knows the Soviets don’t trust him with actual Classified material as far as they could, and would love to, throw him) government documents, but the other Nation’s train has been delayed for “security reasons.”

When he gets back, Austria is standing by the building door, looking certainly lost in his terribly plain brown suit. Prussia shoves his hands in his pockets and walks up to him unnoticed.

“Lost something, Little Master?” he says.

Austria turns too quickly and faces him with wide violet eyes that quickly narrow, a strand of his usually meticulous hair falling in front of his eyes as if to betray the long day of travel he’d gone through.

“I rang your door twice,” he responds instead, chiding tone creeping into his voice as his startled feathers settle.

“And if you had pressed your nose any closer to the glass, you would’ve fallen through and gotten in all on your own without me,” Prussia retorts, not in any particular mood to start arguing now that the sun had gone away and it was getting cold again. He brushes past the other and jams his key into the lock, leading them up the darkened staircase without another word. They both know better than to talk about the reason for the Austrian’s visit in open hallways, after all.

When they finally reach Prussia’s flat on the third floor, the air between them is stifling. Prussia keeps replaying their conversation from outside in his head, even though hardly anything had been said. The hallway crawls with eyes looking over their shoulders. 

“You know…” Prussia begins, then hesitates.

“Yes?” Austria prompts impatiently. His shoulders are stiff and squared, both hands still clutching at the briefcase in front of him.

“We don’t have to do this. You could’ve just, uh, given me the documents downstairs.” His hands itch to rub at the back of his neck or run through his hair. The damp coldness of the hallway digs into his skin a little more.

“Prussia,” Austria says, raising an eyebrow. His eyes flicker to the corridor of closed doors behind them.

Prussia breathes out. _I know_ … he says in his mind, and finally turns to let them into the apartment. He keeps his face impassive, even when Austria brushes their shoulders together just briefly as he enters the flat.

They shuffle a bit awkwardly into the kitchen area just beyond the foyer, the lights in the apartment off and the gray morning barely filtering in through a window from the living room. The apartment is neatly organized, as Prussia’s living quarters have always been, but everything looks worn and thrice used. Prussia takes a few steps inside the space and cringes at the state of his own affairs while Austria takes care of closing and locking the door behind them, the brown jacket of his suit shrugged off a moment later.

“Here,” the other says, and Prussia turns to find him holding out the briefcase in an expectant manner, one eyebrow arched. “Now our business is done.”

Prussia sighs. “You know they have my apartment bugged, right? You might as well have just handed me the documents outside and saved us both the trouble.”

Austria huffs and sets the briefcase down on the kitchen table before crossing his arms. Without his coat on, his frame looks much thinner, the white button-down slightly wrinkled from travelling. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks bluntly.

The briefcase hangs off the corner of the kitchen table.

“No,” Prussia answers truthfully.

Austria nods, seeming satisfied with his answer, and begins toeing off his shoes by the doorway. He then unwinds the scarf he’d left around his neck from earlier and despite his earlier warning, Prussia can’t help himself from crossing the room and taking the other Nation by the shoulders, pulling him forward into an abrupt kiss.

Without missing a beat, Austria’s lips fit themselves to his, the other Nation’s eyes fluttered closed as they alternate between desperate smearing and slow gliding. When they finally part with an audible _smack_ , Austria’s eyes are open, their gazes locked firmly as he catches his breath in little clouds against Prussia’s lips.

He brings one hand up and brushes the fringe out of Prussia’s face. Prussia, for his part, tries not to lean into it.

“I thought you were worried about getting caught,” Austria murmurs, leaning forward again to just barely brush their lips together.

“I am.”

He closes the gap again and revels in the feeling of Austria’s piano fingers straying in his hair, his own hands going down to ghost at the other’s hips. Austria’s shirt is tucked properly into his trousers and Prussia wants nothing more than to rip the fabric out, to actually feel the Austrian’s skin beneath the fabricated layer. He pinches at the fabric regretfully before pulling away again, a similar emotion reflected in Austria’s soft violet eyes as they regard him.

“Do you want coffee?” he asks, stepping back to the kitchen as if the previous moment had never happened. (Officially, it never had.)

Austria goes to get mugs down from the cupboard, just as practiced as Prussia is when it comes to pretending. He sets two down on the counter and nods, “Yes, please,” as Prussia puts a kettle on to boil.

“So what has _your_ idiot government been up to recently?” Prussia asks as he sets down the two mugs of steaming, low-quality East German coffee on the table. He slides into the chair across from the brunet as Austria reaches for the sugar he’d already set out.

“It is much of the same as usual,” Austria shrugs, stirring the sweetener in slowly. Although the Austrian Nation usually runs much finer tastes, it is not a period where beggars can be choosers, and the rations in his own country keep his complaints silent on his lips. “Occupation; starvation; silly ‘cold war’ politics. I am sure you know as well as I that it is better to keep a low profile in these cases.”

Prussia nods knowingly. Funny to think that once upon a time, “keeping a low profile” and his name would have never been used in the same sentence, but Prussia isn’t without the ability to learn from his mistakes.

“Yeah…” he rubs at the back of his head, “Russia practically threatens me about it every time he comes over. The fucking bastard already knows I’ve been cooperating—I mean I’m here, for Christ’s sake.”

“Have you?” A thin eyebrow raises, Austria’s voice arched disbelievingly.

“…Mostly.”

Prussia actually manages one of his old grins and the corners of Austria’s mouth quirk in response, his hand stilling on the table when Prussia reaches over to loosely clasp their hands together. The steaming whiffs of coffee curl into the air between them, the smell sharp and bitter, but to Prussia, it’s nostalgia—distant memories of decades gone by.

“When does your train leave?” he asks.

A small smile plants itself innocently on Austria’s lips. “It was rather odd, really,” he says, “but all the trains back to Vienna this evening were already booked.”

Prussia’s grin widens genuinely and he does not even mind the next burn of too bitter Soviet coffee down his throat when he takes a drink.

* * *

They spend the night together in Prussia’s cheap, too-small bed. It’s nothing beyond kissing and gentle touches, but Prussia feels like it’s enough to carry him through the Cold War and beyond. They stay in bed well past Prussia’s usual wake up time and have another round of Communist-approved coffee before Austria’s train is set for departure and Prussia knows that dogs’ll be sent after him if he doesn’t get the paperwork Austria brought into the office. But for the few moments they have left to themselves, they sit and enjoy the silence. After all, there is not much more that can be said.

(Or too much.)

Prussia looks around at his near-empty concrete apartment and wonders if they’ll finally let him stay in a place long enough for him to decorate. There’s not a lot left, after years of upheaval, but he does have one shoebox full of personal items that he takes with him from each place they move him to.

He digs a cigarette out of a pack by the door and lights it as Austria begins to pull on his coat, his ensemble decidedly missing something, now that it lacked its briefcase component.

“That sure is one ugly suit, Specs,” Prussia says from the wall he’s leaning against, cigarette dangling ash from his mouth. The other Nation pointedly ignores him as he bends down to lace up his shoes. His hair is still damp from his shower and it hangs in front of his face like a turn of the century painter or a debauched gentleman and makes Prussia’s heart pound painfully in his chest. _Too much to say, and no way to say it._

“You sure you’ll be able to your way back to the station, then?” he asks. He can feel a dry patch forming at the back of his throat and he blames the cigarette smoke and takes another sip of his coffee.

“I’m sure I can manage,” Austria responds. “I did manage to find my way here, after all.”

He straightens and gives Prussia one of his rare smiles, reaching up to brush his hair back into place. Prussia stubs out the end of his cigarette and strides forward to capture one last kiss. In that fleeting moment, Austria is a concerto in his arms; the aroma of fresh Viennese coffee and Berlin when the sun is shining—and Prussia never wants to let go.

“Here,” he says, and pushes the quarter filled pack of cigarettes into the other’s hand. Austria twists his palm upwards and furrows his brows in confusion.

“Prussia…you know I don’t smoke anymore.”

His eyes flicker up to the former Nation and Prussia returns the look steadily. “I know,” he replies. “But I just want you to have them in case the situation arises. Understand?”

A flicker of comprehension passes through the other’s eyes and Austria’s expression turns arched, his fingers still loosely curled around the packet in his hand. “Shouldn’t you have them, then?” he asks, and glances towards the briefcase still sitting on the kitchen table. “Your boss will not wait forever for you to deliver those.”

Prussia flashes him a sly wink and closes the brunet’s hand around the smokes. Austria’s hand is warm in his, and Prussia secretly memorizes the contours of the other’s long fingers; pianist’s fingers. “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeves.”

They walk together down the three flights of stairs and stray outside of the gray apartment building. Prussia sticks his hands in his pockets and keeps his expression blank.

“Well, see you, Little Master.”

Austria’s expression is just as concealed, though Prussia can see the internal struggle that lies beneath it.

“Until the next time, fool,” the Nation says.

Prussia brings out one hand to formally farewell the other, the distance suddenly between them habitual after a lifetime of politics. But even after Austria has let go of his hand, and long after the other Nation has finally left, Prussia can still feel the linger of warmth on his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I might guilty pleasure the idea of Russia whisking them all away to his fortress during the Cold War, I think that it's more realistic that they actually stayed in their own territories under strict surveillance as grudging errand boys/"advisors" to the dominant government. The Allied Nations had much more freedom to move between places and would often check up on the occupied states like pesky flies that just won't go away, which kinda pisses Prussia off (especially Russia's visits) while Austria resignedly accepts it. 
> 
> I also think that even though the government knows who they are, they are more or less treated as human, certainly more so in the 20th century. (This change of attitudes is also connected to another headcanon of mine (that didn't get used in this fic) that this is when Nations more began to determine their identities for themselves, as their roles within government began to change. For me, THIS is when they choose and begin going by their "human" names (which is kinda how I get around some of the names just really not making sense for earlier periods of time) as part of this whole rebranding thing and I certainly agree with Neioo's (Are We Humans?) headcanon that Prussia is the one to really start and spearhead this movement.)
> 
> Anyway, in this particular fic, Prussia and Austria have certainly had some kind of relationship since before this moment, although I'm not necessarily sure that they would label it as "dating." This is right before Austria signs its neutrality treaty and is released from Allied occupation, so although Prussia and Austria will still be able to visit each other as government entities, it'll be with far less frequency. (tfw ur romantic partner lives on the other side of the iron curtain :T )


End file.
